


Safest Hands

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Series: front row seats [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s Branching Timeline, Alternate Reality, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Branching Timeline Theory, Established Relationship, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Minor Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Schmoop, Steve POV, love declaration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 05:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18844675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: In the one universe sideways, it’s 2016 and the Avengers have fled underground in the wake of what is the worst streak of bad luck they've ever had. Steve, Tony and Natasha are on the run together, and take temporary cover at a friend’s house.





	Safest Hands

**Author's Note:**

> **Contains:** Aging infirm character [Peggy], non-graphic description of burn injuries.
> 
> Thank you to flyingcatstiel for helping knock this into shape!

When Steve wakes up, the SUV has slowed from its previous interstate cruising to a casual suburban crawl. A glance out the windows confirms this – Steve’s lying as flat as he can manage on the seat, and there are trees moving past at a leisurely pace. No high-rises to be seen, either. There’s just the orange-yellow of early morning, with the thin slice of fading moon bobbing up top.

“Hey.” Tony’s riding shotgun, and has turned in his seat to address him. “Don’t get mad.”

Steve blinks the sleep out of his eyes. “My favorite words to hear from you first thing in the morning.”

“Hmm.” Tony rubs the too-long sleeve of the hoodie against his beard. “Is that even more a favorite than: ‘Grab the shield and don’t ask questions’.”

“That’s _my_ favorite,” Natasha says. She’s driving, and has by now ditched the cap, though her hair has been pulled back in a ponytail. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“You should ask Tony why you shouldn’t get mad.”

Steve presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. It’s been a long day. A long week. He should be used to this by now: months of low and medium-level threats interspersed with training and mundaneness, which would then be interrupted by massive, world-changing flare-ups.

Then again, it’s a good thing he _isn’t_ used to this. The day he gets numb to this kind of bullshit would be a day to genuinely dread.

“Why shouldn’t I get mad?” Steve says.

“Because this is a good idea,” Tony says. “They think we’re heading up to the border—”

“Tony—”

“But if we backtrack—”

“Oh God.” Steve starts to push himself up, only for the stretch of burned skin along his abdomen to protest. He sinks back, and waves off Tony’s attempt to climb over to help. “Where are we?”

“Nat agreed, by the way,” Tony says.

“I did,” Natasha says.

“Where _are_ we?”

“You promised not to get mad,” Tony says.

Steve eyeballs him. “I said no such thing.”

The Avengers are on the run. Well, if one wants to be absolutely precise about it, Steve and Vision are on the run, and the rest of the Avengers (sans one) have dispersed due to various reasons that may or may not be related, depending on whom one asks. The lone exception is Rhodey, kept in the relative clear due to being USAF; he’s treading water with Secretary Ross, but can handle himself.

Steve wishes he were more confident about the others. Sam can take to the underground easily if he were by himself, but he’d had to flee the compound with Wanda and Vision in tow. Steve hopes all the training is paying off, if nothing else.

“We just need to lay low for more than a minute,” Tony says. “Get our bearings.”

“And burner phones.” Natasha brings the SUV into a slow turn, up onto what Steve surmises is a driveway. He props himself up on his elbows, recognizes the roof and shingles beyond, and sighs.

“All right,” Steve says.

There’s a challenge in peeling Steve and the remains of his half-melted suit out of the car, but they manage it. Steve hangs over Tony’s shoulders while Natasha leads the way, heading up the pathway to the house’s back door. Steve glances around for threats but that’s more out of habit – the closest neighbors are kept at bay by the large yard and tall hedges, and Natasha and Tony would’ve taken care not to be seen.

It’s early in the morning, so Steve expects to be kept waiting, or to not find a welcome at all. Yet a handful of knocks in and the door opens to a very surprised Grant Carter, his eyes huge behind his thick glasses, and his beard spackled with far more white than the last time they’d seen him.

“So, hi,” Tony says. “What’re your room rates? Charge by the hour?”

“Geez, come in,” Grant says quickly, pulling the door open and ushering them through. “C’mon, here we go. He hurt?”

“Only his pride,” Natasha says, which Steve is too tired to argue against.

“Burns,” Tony says. “You got something for—”

“Yes, of course. Just…” Grant flaps a hand to the living area, where Tony and Natasha deposit Steve on the couch.

Natasha stays with Steve, helping him push the remains of his suit onto the floor, and then roll the undersuit up, revealing the swathe of bandages they’d put on earlier. The burns are more annoying than painful by now, but the serum’s slow to counteract whatever had been in the explosion. Steve takes a few deep breaths to test the give of the skin and muscle; he can fight, but it’d probably be better to hold that off for a day or so.

“I got the—” Tony returns with a first aid kit.

Natasha takes it from him and pops it open, swift and efficient. The snap of rubber gloves onto her hands is unnecessarily dramatic, as is the way she raises her eyebrow at him. “Here comes the fun part.”

Steve braces himself.

“Honey?” Tony calls out.

“Yeah,” Steve barks.

“You want peanut butter, or peanut butter with jelly?” Tony says.

“What?” Steve turns to Tony, confused. Which of course gives Natasha the opportunity to yank the bandages off in a single clean pull.

Steve doesn’t yelp, but he does turn a betrayed stare at Natasha. She shrugs. The pain itself isn’t so bad, though, and Steve looks down at his stomach curiously. It looks worse than it feels, too.

“That’s new,” Steve says.

Natasha smacks his hand away. “Don’t touch.”

“Hey, I’m asking a question.” Tony taps the back Steve’s head, drawing his attention. Steve finally registers that Tony has a jar of peanut butter in each hand, both of which he’s bobbing in the air like a juggler who’s one jar short. “You need some eatings. Jelly or no?”

“Jelly, thank you,” Steve says. “Are you making enough for—hey, don’t let—”

“It’s his house,” Tony says. Behind him, Grant’s carrying other things out from the kitchen – bread, fruit, juice – which he’s spreading out on the dining table. Tony shrugs at Steve’s frown. “Can’t boss a guy in his own house.”

“We really appreciate it,” Steve tells Grant.

“It’s not a problem,” Grant says, perfectly at ease. “Happens quite often. Well, used to happen quite often.”

“Peggy had a habit of hiding fugitives?” Natasha says.

“And was a fugitive herself, at a few points,” Grant says.

“Is she…?” Steve says.

“Oh, she’s still asleep.” Grant inclines his head upward.

Next to him Tony’s working on sandwiches, the butter knife twirling in his fingers. Grant murmurs a faint, “Please don’t,” and reaches over, correcting Tony’s hand with a nudge so he doesn’t make a mess. Tony looks offended, but Grant just shrugs apologetically and turns away from him – though there’s a fleeting, small smile on his face as he does so. It’s a weird moment, an optical illusion that isn’t, and Steve shakes his head to clear it.

“Do you still have the nurse?” Steve says.

“Yes,” Grant says. “But there’s still a couple of hours before she gets here.”

“We won’t be that long,” Steve says.

Natasha pokes at Steve’s wound with a gloved fingertip. “We won’t?”

“We’ll try not to be that long,” Steve says.

This isn’t the safehouse Steve would have chosen, if only because he doesn’t want Peggy and her husband to get involved in their mess. It’s bad enough that the whole team had to scatter; if Steve had his way, he and Vision could’ve isolated themselves, and the rest could keep the Accords negotiations going and still be available at times of crisis. Instead, they got escalation, and now complete shutdown. The tighter they can isolate the fallout, the better.

Even so. As Steve accepts a peanut butter ‘n jelly sandwich from Tony, he has to acknowledge that it’s nice to get a breather in the home of someone whose agenda he doesn’t have to worry about.

“Let it air.” Natasha sits back on her heels and nods with satisfaction before getting up. “We’ll wrap it before we go.”

“Thanks,” Steve says.

Tony perches on the edge of couch and studies Natasha’s handiwork. “No hula for a while, looks like.”

“Sadly.” Steve leans back, munching on bread and peanut butter, and tries to relax. It’s tricky to remember how to do that when coming off a chase, but he tries. “It wasn’t even a chemical weapon.”

“Might just not be chemicals we’ve encountered before.” Tony hands over another sandwich when Steve’s done with the first. “T’Challa’s tech is… Hmm. Remember when I said that it’d take five, ten years before anyone else figures out power suits? Time to revise that.”

“You’re five, ten years off from his,” Steve says.

“Yep,” Tony says. “A whole suit of vibranium alloy, judging from how he took hits from the shield. Interesting, isn’t it? Watching him whale on you was kinda like watching Robocop pick a fight with Fred Flintstone.”

“If I recall correctly,” Steve says, “Fred Flintstone was ripped.”

“Don’t ever use that word to describe that character ever again,” Tony says.

Natasha settles in another chair, working on a bowl of what Grant tells them are casserole leftovers that they’re all welcome to. She also turns the television on; as expected, the news cycle’s playing footage of the UN bombing.

At least now they’ve interspersed that with what seems to be a new interview with the Wakandan ambassador about the death of the King T’Chaka in the bombing and their request for a fair investigation. The scrolling ribbon at the bottom of the screen reminds all and sundry that Steve is the primary suspect, and that anyone with information needs to call it in immediately.

“I like how they couldn’t find a less flattering photo of you.” Tony bumps his foot against Steve’s shin. “That’s the angry face from the second committee hearing, isn’t it?”

“Looks like it,” Steve says.

“I’m just surprised Ross hasn’t started calling for all our heads,” Natasha says.

“Probably thinks he can get one of us to squeal.” Tony hums thoughtfully, eyes on the screen as the talking heads keep at it. “Nothing about T’Challa’s Hello Kitty cosplay, though. Seems they’re keeping that under wraps.”

“Ross could be working with him,” Natasha observes. “To flush us out.”

Steve busies himself with the last of the sandwich, followed by the plate of cookies Grant’s put on the coffee table. Natasha and Tony hash it out around him, and Steve lets them; he’s said his piece and has heard all their rebuttals.

“Where’s an alien invasion when you need it?” Tony mutters.

At least Tony’s focused. Steve finds himself smiling as he watches Tony’s seeming carelessness under pressure, and the ease with which he talks out the problem. And he _will_ work the problem, because that’s what he does, no matter that he doesn’t have his gear, and is on the run, and is out here in the first place because of Steve.

Steve braces himself on the couch and pushes himself to his feet. The crumbly remains of the cookies are safely set aside, and Steve waves off Tony and Natasha’s disapproving noises. “I need to stretch. And use the bathroom.”

“Aye, Cap,” Tony says.

Steve trudges off, taking steps that don’t need to be slow and careful, but are slow and careful anyway in order to preempt Tony’s yelling at him. Steve remembers his way to the downstairs bathroom and, after finishing and washing up, takes the scenic route around the stairs and into the kitchen.

Grant’s in the kitchen. He looks up when Steve enters, then returns his attention to the arrangement of the tray in front of him. It’s a breakfast tray, with a bowl of porridge, a mug, and a flower set in a small vase.

“How is she?” Steve asks.

“She’s tired most of the time.” Grant delivers this simply; it is the way it is. “There are good days and bad days.”

“Would it be okay if I come up to see her?”

“Sure. C’mon.”

Steve takes the tray and follows the man upstairs, listening as Grant tells him of what’s changed since his last visit. (February, Steve thinks. Three months. He could do better.) Peggy sleeps most of the time now, but when she’s not she listens to music and audiobooks, and has Grant read to her. Even so, she’s still opinionated enough to refuse any attempt to move her downstairs.

“She doesn’t know what’s been happening with the…” Grant pauses on the landing, expression inscrutable. “I told her about Maria’s passing, but she forgets, sometimes. Asks if we can videocall her.”

Steve nods. He adjusts the tray onto one hand, using the other to roll the undersuit back over his injuries.

Grant smiles. “Shall we?”

Steve follows Grant into the bedroom, but hangs back at the doorway, giving the guy space to set the tray and check on Peggy. Grant murmurs softly and Peggy stirs, slow and lethargic. At another word from Grant, Peggy turns towards Steve, her face lighting up.

“Hi,” Steve says softly. “Sorry to crash in on breakfast.”

Peggy shakes her head. “Always a pleasure, Steve.” She beckons, and Steve takes the chair next to the bed. “In the neighborhood?”

“Yes, just passing through,” Steve says. On the other side of the bed Grant moves with practiced ease, helping Peggy sit up and arranging the tray on the mattress. Steve feels a swell in his chest at the intimacy of it, though it’s not envy he feels (that faded a long time ago). It’s admiration.

Peggy’s lived a long, rich, fulfilling life. It wasn’t easy, but she changed the world and had a family on top of that to boot. Steve could’ve – should’ve – asked her earlier, how she managed it. How was it that she faced difficult choices, figured right from wrong in a world of gray, and separated the life she gave to her duty and the life she kept for herself. He’d could’ve asked, and she could’ve told him if he’s overthinking all of this, and especially matters with Tony.

Being dramatic over nothing, as she likes to say.

(Steve wants a place like this, just like what Peggy’s found with Grant, and to one day have that with Tony. Not any time soon, but one day, maybe, possibly, and if they can ever figure out how to separate the public from the private, and help others take on the fight after them.)

Hell, Peggy would have a better run of leading the Avengers than Steve has. Steve knows how to handle people coming at them in a straight fight, but what of people who come at them off it? In the news and at state hearings and on the streets, questioning everything about who they are and why they do what they do and if they can be counted on to be above it all (which they can’t, because they’re _human_ , as some people forget). Peggy would shut all of it down and keep the team together.

But maybe that’s putting Peggy on a pedestal she’d rather kick down.

It’s not the first time that Steve’s been tempted with questions, but he’s never been able to ask her for advice that cut a little deeper. Peggy deserves her rest, and she damn well deserves not to be bothered by an old friend asking pesky questions.

So, today, Steve talks about plenty of nothing. He tells her about the tricks in Tony’s latest suit, anecdotes of Natasha with Clint’s kids, and of Vision and Wanda, whom she hasn’t met. These are all light stories that are a little old by now, but no less valuable. Peggy nods and hums, but talks little, and spends most of her energy eating.

When Peggy seems ready to nod off again, Steve takes his leave. Grant sees him to the landing, and it’s there, with Steve keeping his voice low so Peggy won’t hear, that he says: “I’m glad she has you.”

Grant starts in surprise. “Oh,” he says, as though that’s the last thing he expected Steve to say.

Which is kind of awful.

They’re not friends – Steve’s self-aware enough to recognize that. At best they’re acquaintances, and Steve only trusts him because of Peggy, who trusts Grant and to whom Grant’s never done wrong. But the facts remain that this single morning in the Carter house is probably the longest that Steve’s spent in his company, and that Steve knows as much of the man today as he did ten years ago, which is to say, not a whole lot.

Steve remembers his reasons, the inexplicable nail along the chalkboard that the man’s presence causes, but it’s hard to hold on to that now. Not with Peggy napping a few feet away.

“It’s true,” Steve says earnestly.

“I’m the lucky one,” Grant replies.

“That’s true as well.” Steve turns away for a moment, eye drifting down the stairs where Tony and Natasha are.

“Is everything all right with Tony?”

It’s Steve’s turn to start, head snapping back up to look at Grant. “Yes,” he says, maybe a little too quickly. “Why?”

“No, it’s just…” Grant shrugs and that awful, inexplicably wary corner of Steve’s brain decides to parse the motion as someone trying to seem like a helpless old man, instead of a shrewd one. “I only know what’s on the news, but there’s been a lot going on. Like, with the Accords?”

“Yeah, that’s…” Steve trails off, dumbfounded. Only a handful of days ago the Accords seemed the biggest problem in the world. And here they are. “That’s probably going to get signed without our say-so at this point.”

“They can do that?”

“Well, apparently I’m unstable, tried to kill Ross, and hate the Accords so much I’m willing to bomb the UN to sabotage it.” Steve laughs a little, and tries his best to take Grant’s sympathetic smile at face value. “So who knows?”

“Did you?” Grant sounds more amused than curious. “Try to kill Ross?”

“I may have shaken him a little. Look, if someone insulted your relationship with Peggy to your face, what would you do?”

“Depends. Is Peggy there to hear the insult herself?”

Steve deflates. “Yeah. Fair enough.”  Tony _had_ been there, and hadn’t cared because hey, it’s just Ross, and there were other things to worry about. Not for the first time, Steve wonders if there’s something to the unstable angle they’ve been pushing on him.

“It could be worse,” Grant says.

“Could it?”

“Yes.”

A single word, the tone gentle and commiserating, but an unexpected chill moves up Steve’s spine anyway. When Steve studies him, there’s nothing to read off of Grant’s face, but what does that mean at this point? Nothing.

“I should get back to the others,” Steve says.

“Yes, of course. And feel free to take anything else from the kitchen, it’s no bother.”

When Steve makes his way downstairs, the TV has moved on from the recent bombing, and is showing footage from the Quinjet crash of three weeks ago. Steve feels his face contort in disappointment, though it was of course a matter of time before the news cycles started putting a narrative together on the Avengers’ latest streak of bad luck.

“There you are!” Tony exclaims.

Steve jolts, startled by Tony’s appearing right in his face. “Yes, I’m here.”

“Just, you know, checking.” Tony scowls down at Steve’s stomach, and carefully draws the undersuit back up to air his wounds. “Got quiet for a while there. Thought maybe you’d jumped out the window.”

“I… wouldn’t? Do that?”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “You almost said that with a straight face.”

Steve makes a valiant attempt to not rise to the bait. They’ve had this argument and variations of it over and over, and Steve knows better. He knows Tony better, too. “I’m not going to run.”

“You still want to,” Tony says matter-of-factly.

“I won’t, because I promised that I won’t.” Steve could stop there, but he doesn’t, because Tony’s up in his space being all knowing and dubious, but still smiling at him as though these are all mild character flaws that Tony finds charming. “But it doesn’t change that fact that both of you can still go back. They’re going to call an emergency assembly and get the Accords signed without us, and it’s done. We’re screwed.”

“Hey,” Natasha says, her voice raised though she doesn’t budge from her spot in front of the TV. “An attack on any one of us is an attack on all of us.”

“Exactly,” Tony says. “What is it you always say? We do this together.”

“What is it _you_ always say?” Steve counters. “Keep an eye on the greater threat? What’s going to happen now, when there’s no Avengers out there holding the line? What if the Chitauri come back tomorrow? Today?”

“Then we fight,” Tony says, with quiet, iron-clad conviction that has Steve’s breath catching. This is the best and worst of arguing with this man; Tony infuriates in the same breath that he inspires. “We go out and we fight. Steve—”

“They’re only after me.” Steve grips Tony’s shoulders, imploring. “Just me.”

“They’re not, though,” Tony says.

“Okay, yes, Vision is also a target, but that’s only because they think I used him as a weapon.”

“Try again,” Tony says. “C’mon.”

Steve grits his teeth. It makes sense in his head: this wave of attack is coming for him, so if he takes himself out of the picture, the rest of the team can move on. But he also sees – as does Tony – what’s going on beyond that. He rather hoped that Tony didn’t, but then he wouldn’t be Tony, would he?

What’s going on is personal. The Quinjet crash was genuine bad luck and the Accords have been building for a while, but the UN bombing is personal. Someone made the effort to pin this on Steve, used his face and had it caught on camera, when any other face would’ve sufficed as a disguise. Steve has enemies, but these days his enemies are the Avengers’, too.

If whoever’s coming after him is actually after the Avengers as a whole, then their choice of Steve as a target speaks volumes. He’s a high risk/high gain mark, and whoever’s behind it is opportunistic, dangerous, and has to be aware they have this one shot to make it stick. Could they have also contributed to the growing public movement that’s ‘concerned’ about Steve’s mental state, his morals (thank _God_ Tony can brush that off where Steve can’t) and his ability to be Captain America? It sounds like a conspiracy theory, but why not? This is the world they live in.

If they’d come for Tony, Steve would’ve known what to do. He’d close ranks, hold his ground. But that’s not what’s happening, and Steve _knows_ he should let Tony and the rest of the team do this for him. With him.

Still, the idea remains. Steve could run. He could hide, stay underground, and be content in the knowledge that even if the whole world thinks him a monster, at least the Avengers ( _Tony_ ) doesn’t.

“This could destroy everything we’ve worked for.” Though what Steve really means is: everything that _Tony’s_ worked for.

“It could.” Tony leans in and takes Steve’s chin between his fingers. “But you promised that we’d face it together. Just as we’ve faced everything else. Sure, this is a little more intense than usual, but so what?”

 _Trust me_ , Tony’s saying.

“Right. Yes.” Steve swallows, throat thick. “I promised.”

“Okay. Good.” Tony slips his hand into Steve’s, and pulls him along. “We’ve got a loose plan, but first, inventory. Money. Shit to cause shit.”

“What about Betty Ross?” Steve says. “Can we still get hold of her?”

“Hey, Grant,” Natasha calls out. Grant, who’s coming down the stairs, tilts his head questioningly. “Do you have gear?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Grant says. “Most of it’s in the attic. Do you need a cellphone? I have a couple spares lying around here somewhere.”

“We’ve taken everything out of the SUV.” Tony gestures at the coffee table, which is now covered with a small hill of miscellany. “Except your shield, we left it in the trunk. Oh, hey, forgot about your suit.”

Steve startles. He makes a grab for the suit but is a second too late, because Tony’s picked it off the floor.

“Oh, there’s nothing in there,” Steve says. “It’s just the grapple hook left, it’s empty—”

“There’s circuitry in the frame, I can…” Tony trails off, hand pausing where it’s patting down the stretch of kevlar-scales.

“Uh,” Steve says.

Tony pushes his fingers into the lining pocket that normally runs along Steve’s waist. Steve watches, horrified and thrilled and terrified, as Tony pulls out a small black container, made of sturdy but flexible material, and is easy to tuck tight against one’s body. A click of Tony’s thumb has the lid popping open, and there’s the ring.

There’s no missing what it is. The sunlight coming in through the windows is bright even through the drawn curtains, and it catches the blue stone set into the band of white gold.

This is not at all the way Steve wanted this to go, but he can’t look away. There’s just Tony’s face – surprise, confusion, followed by a blink of sharp understanding.

“Okay,” Natasha says quietly. “Let’s check out the attic.”

Steve’s eyes dart to the stairs, where Natasha has hooked an arm in Grant’s and is pulling him up with her. Grant’s face is one of pure surprise, but he flashes a quick thumbs-up at Steve before the pair of them disappear up the steps.

“Funny, that,” Tony says, into the stifling silence of the room. “If T’Challa hit you more on your left side, you would’ve lost this.”

“Yeah,” Steve says weakly. “Funny.”

Tony snaps the container shut. “Where do you want this? On the table?”

“I’ll take it.” Steve’s stomach swoops when Tony just… tosses it. He lobs it, across the few feet of air into Steve’s hand, and isn’t even looking properly as he does it.

“Okay.” Tony’s already turned away, hands on his hips as regards the spread on the table. “Let’s get everything out and counted.”

Steve stares at the little black container, and how neatly it fits in his palm.

Is this a rejection? It feels like a rejection, but that could just be the remnants of Steve’s panic fading way, leaving nothing else to hold on to, not even a reaction.

Steve’s had time to think of all possible ways that Tony might respond, and a rejection was certainly one of them. They’d never talked about marriage all the years they’ve been together, and it’s been difficult to tell if Tony’s general disparaging remarks on the institution were genuine and without exception. The fact that they’ve lasted this long is an accomplishment simply for how it doesn’t _feel_ like an accomplishment; they’ve lived together, fought together, healed together, and it’s just that time passed around them as they did all the above.

But Tony can’t reject Steve if there’s no question being asked, can he?

This is not the time for this, and heaven knows that Tony deserves better. But Tony’s in the know now, and he’s going to keep on knowing and maybe wondering, and if Steve doesn’t lay it out before something else comes down on their heads, it might always be left hanging, and then what?

“I’ve had this for a while,” Steve says.

Tony jumps a little, his back straightening.

“I got it a few, uh…” Steve takes a breath. “A few days before your mom…”

“Ah,” Tony says neutrally.

“Been thinking about it before that, of course. It was pretty quick to make, once I got the sketches done. I had this big production planned, but then we got the news about Maria. After that we had to deal with Strucker, and the Quinjet crash, and Ross dumping the Accords in our lap. And now with the bombing and T’Challa…”

“Sounds like the universe is trying to tell you something,” Tony says.

Steve frowns.

That’s – no. Steve thinks like that sometimes, but only sometimes, and less so lately. Tony’s head is a fascinating and mysterious place, and he has his dark moments, but for him to say that out loud? Now? Because of this? That won’t do.

Steve marches around the furniture, purposefully ignoring the way that Tony stiffens up. Tony’s not looking at him, his focus seemingly locked on the scattered equipment on the table, but that’s all right. Steve takes Tony’s hand and holds it between his.

“To hell with what the universe is saying,” Steve says. “Since when do we care?”

Tony swallows, and is silent.

Steve takes a deep breath. “I know I’m not the kind of person you expected to be with ten years ago, maybe even five years ago. But you didn’t expect the rest of it, either. Iron Man, being a hero, forming the Avengers. All of this is a surprise, and you thrive on it. You’re _thriving_ in it. It’s been a pleasure and an honor to be here with you for all of this.”

Tony makes a noise that could be an acknowledgement.

“And you?” Steve continues. “You’re definitely not what I expected I’d want, either. But I do, and some days it’s the only thing that makes any damned sense. I should be dead twice, thrice over, but it’s random crazy bullshit that I’m not. At least, I used to think it was bullshit. Now I’m just thankful, because it got me here, to someone who brings out the best of me, watches my back and takes none of my crap, and lets me return the favor.”

He means this even now, despite their being on the run and the Avengers’ fate unknown. Steve’s thankful for Tony’s being here, no matter how selfish that makes him.

“This is _it_ for me, Tony,” Steve says.

It’s been a long couple of weeks holding on to that ring. Everything kept happening, one twist after another, leaving Steve in knots and wondering how he could possibly still be thinking about this tiny thing (but to him, not so tiny) while everything else was going on. Their lives are unpredictable and the stakes they deal with world-encompassing, so how could Steve even _dare_ to want to ask this little bit more from Tony?

Especially with how people have been using this relationship against them of late, part and parcel of the on-going discussion of whether the Avengers (especially Steve) can be counted on not to pursue their own interests. He and Tony never kept what they had a secret, but it wasn’t for public consumption. Whether that was the right or wrong decision is beyond asking anymore; all that matters is that when it came out, people like Ross started using it against them. Tony’s always been controversial, so that’s old news, no longer worth poking at. Better to turn the spotlight slightly off-center, and ask if the people can _really_ trust a less-than-straight Captain America.

If Steve were savvier with the press like Tony, or even had the ability to hold his tongue once in a while, then maybe they’d have one less thing in this mess to worry about. But that’s not what happened, and that’s not where they ended up.

Steve still wants to marry him anyway, all other dangers be damned.

“So,” Tony says, “you think that the next step is to get married.”

“It doesn’t have to be marriage.”

Tony’s head snaps up, and he stares at Steve, appalled. “You wave a ring in my face and you say that it doesn’t _have_ to be _marriage_?”

“It can be whatever we want, whatever you’re comfortable with,” Steve says quickly. “Partnership, commitment, civil union or, anything else. Marriage in itself isn’t what’s important. What’s important is that it’s with _you_.”

“But you want to marry me,” Tony says.

For a second Steve panics, because Tony’s tone is hard to read despite Steve’s spending these past handful of years doing his best to know all of him. Is that a challenge? Disbelief? A tease, hidden in disbelief? He can’t tell.

Stick to your fucking guns, Rogers.

“Yes,” Steve says. “I want to marry you, if you’d have me.”

Time stretches thin and anxious.

“Did you know,” Tony says slowly, with a low-pitched casualness that has Steve abruptly exhaling with shaky relief, “that I can count on one hand – okay, sure, two hands – the number of times that you’ve asked me for something that’s for yourself? Not something for the team, or to make you a better leader, or any of the other countless selfless reasons you have for living? But something just for you?”

“God, Tony.” Steve sways, unbalanced, and tips forward to press his forehead onto Tony’s shoulder. He stays there, breathing Tony in, uninterested in being anywhere else. “Yes, I want this for me. For us.”

This is Steve’s. He wants it, will keep it and protect it, with a fierceness that still shocks him. After he came out of the ice, he thought he’d found contentment, or at least peace with what happened to him. He’s useful, necessary, functional – but so what, and for how long? People like Tony were the future. But then Tony had to open his hand, reach out for Steve and take him along.

“And you also realize,” Tony continues, “that the only reason you’re asking me right now is because I Easter egg’ed the ring out of your suit?”

“Sounds like the universe was trying to tell me something,” Steve says wryly.

Tony laughs. Is that a yes? It could be a yes, but there’s a tremor in the laugh. Steve truly, honestly, doesn’t mind if Tony’s answer is no, but that tremor is unacceptable.

Steve releases his grip on Tony’s hand, and slides his arms around the rest of him. Tony’s chest heaves, a great motion of expanding and relaxing. They haven’t held each other in – maybe two days now? Not properly, anyway.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to—” Steve starts.

“You could relax for like two seconds there, Steve.” Tony shifts in Steve’s arms, a pointed movement of turning to meet Steve’s eyes without dislodging Steve’s arms an inch – Earth turning its face in the comfortable orbit of its moon. He tilts his head back a little, but only so that their noses don’t bump.

Tony makes a rolling gesture with his head. It takes Steve a second, after which he lifts the ring case up.

“You know I can’t wear it for very long,” Tony says. “Not right now.”

“Yes, of course.” Steve pushes the lid open, and keeps his eye on Tony’s face as he studies the ring. This is definitely more terrifying than the first time he let Tony browse his sketchbook.

Tony blinks. “Is that—”

“Yes.” It’s on-the-nose, but Steve said to hell with it, why _shouldn’t_ Tony’s ring have a stone setting in the design of his old arc reactor. “Thought it’d be nice.”

Tony plucks the ring out of its case, easy as you please. “Can’t say no then, can I?”

“Tony. The point is that you _can_.”

“No, I can’t.” Tony’s mouth quirks, a flash of emotion in his otherwise placid face. This calmness isn’t a mask, Steve knows; this is when there’s so much going on in Tony’s head that he shrinks back on himself, as though compelled to parcel out his feelings into manageable chunks in lieu of spontaneously combusting. Tony’s movements seem flippant – how he studies the ring, then slides it onto the wrong finger up to the knuckle – but Steve knows what’s going on inside the man is anything but.

“Okay,” Tony says.

“What?”

“Yeah, okay, c’mon, we’re on a tight schedule here.” Tony nudges Steve’s chest with a sharp elbow, forcing him to unwrap his arms. Steve lets him, and is bewildered up until Tony wraps his arms over Steve’s shoulders, hauls him close, and kisses the hell out of him.

All right, so that’s a yes.

Steve’s body glows with it, lit from the inside out by the sound of the yes. He kisses back, holds Tony close and warm against him – Steve’s stomach protests at how tightly they’re pressed together, but it’s easily ignorable.

Tony’s body is tense, but in the seconds during kisses, he relaxes. Unwinds. Gives in to what’s happening, and of what Steve’s told him.

“What the hell,” Tony breathes against Steve’s mouth, his voice low and pained in its honesty.

There it is. Even after all the time and all the ways they’ve been open with each other, these moments still humble Steve. Tony is a comet burning bright and fast and impossible, but he’s also just a man, with a heart of tenderness and fear and hope; the gift is that Tony shares both with Steve _._ Tony says quietly: “I should be dead so many times over, too, and yet – and _yet._ What is this? How’d I get you?”

Steve kisses him again, pushing his mouth against Tony’s and taking what Tony gives. The world may be a mess but in this tiny corner that belongs to them, it’s all right. They’re all right.

When they part, Steve feels a jolt of alarm because – oh hell – Tony’s blinking rapidly, his eyes shiny. Steve pulls him in again and presses a long, lingering kiss to Tony’s temple, while Tony grumbles under his breath as if he isn’t enjoying every single second of this.

“I can’t believe you, Steve.” Tony draws back, sounding annoyed despite the well-kissed pink of his mouth. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

“What’s that?” Steve says.

“You’ve been carrying the ring in your suit.”

“I couldn’t leave it lying around—”

“This _whole damn time_?

“Wait,” Steve says, blinking. “Are you angry?”

“I’m not angry. I’m just concerned that you’ve been keeping this from me for almost two months.”

“Not two months. Just barely over a month, really.”

“Yes, that makes all the difference. And not the keeping it from me part of it.”

“It was hard to get the right time!”

“Yeah, yeah, well, this isn’t the right time either, is it?” Tony pushes his fingers into Steve’s hair, greedy and grabbing at him, while his mouth brushes Steve’s in almost-kisses. “I cannot believe there was not five minutes somewhere you could’ve just pulled me aside like, hey, Tony, I’m bonkers in love with you and want to spend the rest of my life with you. Would’ve been nice to have _something_ good happen in the middle of all this shitstorm.”

“You already knew about the in love with you part, though,” Steve says. “This is just an addendum.”

“Wow,” Tony says slowly. “An addendum. Amazing. Poetic. I’m falling all over myself for you right now.”

“I can take the ring back.”

“Excuse _you_.” Tony clenches his fist, the ring locked against the knuckle. He presses said fist firmly against his collarbone. “Finders keepers. Sorry.”

“Okay!” Natasha says, her steps deliberately heavy as she returns down the stairs, Grant following close behind. The pair are carrying bags that Steve immediately gets up to take and put on the couch. “We heard yelling,” she says. “Figured it was time to come back.”

“That’s not yelling,” Tony says in disgust. “It was very romantic.”

“Thank you,” Steve says.

“No, not you.” Tony slides up against Steve anyway, and presses his shoulder against Steve’s chest in a move that should not feel as intimate as it does. “I said yes, of course.”

Natasha laughs. “Of course you did.”

“If you’re implying that I’m predictable—” Tony’s cut off when Natasha hugs him. He tries to scowl but it’s a poor showing; he’s smiling, grinning, a helpless mirror of the sheer happiness that Steve must be glowing with.

There’s congratulations and laughter. Steve gets a hug from Natasha, and an unexpected one from Grant, who says quietly, “I’m very happy for you,” which is nice but a little intense, before the man moves on to hug Tony.

Tony had a point. (He often does.) It’s nice to have something good happen in the middle of this shitstorm.

“Okay,” Steve says, hands on his hips. “Inventory. And we need to get in contact with Sam.”

Tony drops onto the couch and starts picking through equipment in front of him. “On it.”

“What about Clint?” Natasha says.

Steve shakes his head. “We shouldn’t bring him into this.”

“I know him,” Natasha says wryly. “He’d be pissed if we don’t.”

“Fine, it’s your call. We get Clint, Sam, and see if Betty’s still open. Then we need trace on whoever was in Vienna wearing my face.”

“Wait,” Tony says. “Did Natasha know about the ring? Did you know about the ring?”

“I did not,” Natasha says.

“I didn’t tell anyone on the team,” Steve says. “Didn’t need the additional pressure.”

“’On the team’,” Tony says thoughtfully. “Off the team?”

Steve coughs. “Phil.”

“Coulson?” Tony gasps. “You told Coulson?”

“I needed feedback on the design,” Steve says defensively.

“As if he’d ever critique anything _you_ design,” Tony says, rolling his eyes. “I can do the trace, but not from here.”

“Your back-up server?” Steve says, and Tony nods. “The compound’s on lockdown.”

“Different grid,” Tony says. “Unless FRIDAY goes turncoat, which she won’t, they won’t know it exists.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Natasha says.

“All right,” Steve says. “Let’s work with that.”

The conversation flows over them; Tony spelling out what he’s doing as he takes Grant’s spare phones apart, and Natasha tallying up the gear that they have. Steve takes a spot between them at the coffee table, picking at the old but functional equipment, which will do just fine. Grant quietly disappears into the kitchen, where the aroma of fresh coffee soon wafts over from.

Steve starts at a press on his arm. He looks up, and there’s Tony’s holding his fist out to Steve, his expression expectant. It takes Steve a second, and then he carefully uncurls Tony’s hand and moves the ring to its proper finger, pushing it all the way home.

Tony nods with satisfaction, and they get back to work.

Everything will be fine.

 

(And it is.)

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr post!](https://no-gorms.tumblr.com/post/184912211466/a-follow-up-to-something-beautiful-because-grant)


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